Patterns in the Sand (9 page)

 

A
idan Peabody’s funeral lived up to his wishes. It was a festive, lively affair.

 

 

“So like Aidan,” Nell said, walking up the wooden steps to the outdoor restaurant where tables were ready, a microphone set up, and baskets of peanuts and chips set out. Strings of tiny lights outlined the perimeter of the deck.

 

 

Hank and Merry Jackson’s Artist’s Palate, located just off the main road of Canary Cove, down a small side street that ran right into the Palate’s parking lot, was the perfect place for a gathering. The small bar and grill was known for its deck, which hung over the edge of the water and hosted local bands in the evening hours—reggae, rock, or soft jazz—whatever seemed to suit the night and the crowd. Hank’s food was plain but delicious—hamburgers, brats, and lobster rolls. And few left without at least a taste of Hank’s beer-batter calamari heaped high in wicker baskets.

 

 

“ ‘A wild celebration of life,’ were Aidan’s exact words.” Jane Brewster climbed the steps to the Artist’s Palate’s deck just behind Nell. “He felt strongly about it, not that planning funerals was a daily conversation in Canary Cove. But you know how you do, sometimes sitting in a bar or at the end of the old dock, just hashing out the mysteries of life. Ham, Aidan, and I used to do that a lot, hanging out at the end of the old dock.”

 

 

“And always with a Sam Adams in hand, I’d guess,” Birdie said.

 

 

“You’ve got that right.” Ham helped Birdie up the last step.

 

 

“I wonder if Father Northcutt is offended that the funeral isn’t in the church.”

 

 

Jane chuckled. “Aidan might have been able to use those special blessings. But I don’t remember him ever setting foot in Our Lady of Safe Seas, though he liked Father Northcutt well enough. He was the first to donate his art to the church auctions and made sure everyone else around here did the same. And I think he gave chunks of money to any cause Father Larry set down in front of him. But a noisy affair for his final good-bye seems far more to Aidan’s taste.”

 

 

Ham scanned the room, looking for a place to sit. A waving arm drew their attention to a large round table in the corner of the deck. Over the tops of heads, Izzy mouthed that she’d grabbed chairs for all.

 

 

Cass and her brother Pete were already at the table, frosty mugs lined up in front of them and a basket of calamari rapidly disappearing. Sam appeared, balancing a tray filled with platters of shrimp and a full pitcher of beer.

 

 

“Where’s Willow?” Izzy asked as she kissed Nell on the cheek. “And Uncle Ben?”

 

 

“Well, not together,” Nell said. “Ben got called into a last-minute meeting downtown but promised that he’d be here. It was important, he said. And Willow was meeting Brendan for a run or a bite to eat. A festive celebration for someone who died didn’t sit comfortably with her.”

 

 

“Especially someone she didn’t know,” Cass added. “I can’t say I blame her.”

 

 

Jane slipped down next to Cass and poured herself a glass of beer from the pitcher. She gathered up her long, flowing cotton skirt and tucked it beneath her. “Willow didn’t know Aidan?” She frowned.

 

 

“She didn’t know anyone here until she landed in my window last Friday night,” Izzy said.

 

 

“Hmm,” Jane said. “You’re sure?”

 

 

“That’s my understanding,” Nell said. She paused, puzzled by Jane’s look. Clearly her friend had information that said otherwise. But before Nell could pursue it, the echoing screech of a microphone hushed the crowd into silence.

 

 

Father Northcutt stood at the mic, looking more priestly than usual in his pressed black suit and stiff Roman collar.

 

 

“Good evening, everyone.” Chairs shifted at the echoing words and faces turned to face the familiar voice.

 

 

“Our thanks to Hank and Merry Jackson for letting us all gather here at their restaurant tonight.” The microphone screeched and Father Lawrence Northcutt frowned at it, then backed up a step.

 

 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ham said quietly. “Good old Father Larry. If the funeral won’t come to you, then you go to the funeral. Good man.”

 

 

The gray-haired pastor, a fixture in Sea Harbor for decades, waved his hand over the crowd as if bestowing a blessing or sprinkling holy water. Nell suspected the black suit wouldn’t be intact for long. As soon as his blessing was finished, the jacket would be hung over the back of his chair and the collar would come off while the night was still young.

 

 

“We’re not here to mourn a tragic death. Aidan would come down and curse us all if we did that,” the amiable priest continued. “We’re here tonight to celebrate a colorful, rich life.”

 

 

“He’s right about that,” Ham murmured and the group smiled.

 

 

“Our friend Aidan Peabody was a champion of the arts and I’m sure you all have stories to share.” Father Larry went on to invite the crowd to pick up the microphone when the spirit moved them, to toast their friend, to share a story or two. And above all, he urged them to follow their dear departed friend’s wish that they eat, drink, and be ever so merry.

 

 

Nell looked out over the crowd as the priest talked on about his relationship with Aidan and the generous donations the artist had made to the Our Lady of Safe Seas children’s center and food pantry. The deck was packed with artists, gallery owners, townspeople, many friends of Aidan’s, some associates, and a handful of people who were curious and enjoyed a festive gathering, whatever the reason for it.

 

 

Billy Sobel was there with his new wife, Natalie, and a large table filled with Canary Cove artists and shop owners. Billy was a stolid sort, with thinning hair and strong limbs. Nell liked him, though she’d never experienced firsthand his reported temper. Keep him calm and happy, was Ham’s advice when dealing with Billy. He seemed calmer, though, with this new wife. She was a carefully made-up woman, years younger than Billy, with a show business background, some said. A dancer in a New Jersey casino, Birdie had heard. That was where they’d met.

 

 

Her husband’s gallery on Canary Road represented many New England artists. His recent acquisition of the lost James paintings, for all of Aidan’s protests, would benefit the whole art colony. Nell suspected that by summer’s end the paintings would be sold and Bill Sobel and his wife wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time to come.

 

 

Across the table from Billy, Rebecca Marks sat in a flowing dress hand-dyed in oranges, reds, and saffron, the neckline low and accentuating her enviable figure. Rebecca was a work of art herself, Nell thought, her beautiful features and fiery temper somehow befitting an artist. She wondered what Rebecca was thinking tonight, sitting at a memorial service for a man she seemed to have developed a recent, intense dislike for.

 

 

And a man whose bed she had shared.

 

 

Nell felt sure Rebecca would soon stand up at the microphone and talk about Aidan in glowing, respectful terms, the way one did when someone died. She’d charm the group with stories about Aidan’s work in the colony, his colorful wooden carvings, his immense knowledge of all kinds of art. And she’d tastefully hide her contentious relationship with the artist behind a perfect smile and magnetic green eyes.

 

 

Ellen Marks sat next to her sister, quiet as always. Ellen was the more stable of the sisters, or so it always seemed to Nell. They were an odd pair, but no matter, their partnership was certainly successful. The Marks women ran Lampworks, an acclaimed handblown glass gallery that had been on the cove for less than a couple years, but in that time it had established a robust reputation. The two women were day and night, yin and yang—the colorful, gorgeous artist, Rebecca, and introspective, smart, and financially savvy Ellen, preferring to be in the shadows but, Nell suspected, one to be reckoned with if push came to shove. In recent months their success had become obvious by an addition to the gallery and the purchase of a lovely home in Sea Harbor. Some called it showy, but as Jane and Ham Brewster told Nell, they didn’t care who called it showy—the shop was successful—and that meant success for the whole of the art community. And though Rebecca might be a tad arrogant at times, Ellen’s allegiance to the Canary Cove effort made up for it. She spent long hours helping Aidan and all of them on the arts council, building monthly reports and balancing the Foundation books, a thankless volunteer job that Jane said no one else wanted to do—but Ellen took it on.

 

 

The toasts continued as the evening sky turned dark. Glasses were raised again and again, and Nell listened with half an ear, observing the crowd as people came and went.

 

 

Billy was quiet tonight, Nell noticed, but his bride, Natalie, dressed in a short fitted skirt and a gauzy blouse with a scalloped collar that curled around her neck, stood at the microphone and gushed about their friend Aidan—a surprising toast since Natalie had been in Sea Harbor less than a year. Nell watched Billy as Billy watched his wife. But his thoughts seemed elsewhere and his round face was a blend of emotions Nell couldn’t quite read. She hoped whatever bone he and Aidan had picked recently was forgotten now. He kept his eyes focused on his wife, his head inclined slightly, and his fingers fiddling with a thick gold chain around his neck.

 

 

“Did you get enough to eat?” Hank Jackson asked the group a while later, pulling a chair up to the table and squeezing in between Birdie and Nell. “Y’know even this menu has Aidan written all over it. Fresh shrimp. Calamari and oysters, brats and beer. Aidan could never decide if he was a New Englander or a cheese-head.”

 

 

“Cheesehead?”

 

 

“Yeah—remember? He went to Madison, studied all that history stuff about art. He used to show off, sitting here with a beer, challenging the other guys on all the fine points, like who painted what, and what style, and when and all that crap. Guy was brilliant.”

 

 

Ham laughed at the memories. “You’re right. He was a bit of a show-off, but he knew his art.”

 

 

“But old mother ocean lured him back here as soon as he had that degree in hand. He had sea fever, he used to say. Born of the sea.”

 

 

Birdie put her napkin on the table. “We are all stuffed to the gills, Hank. You throw a very nice funeral.” She patted his hand. “Aidan would have loved this party.”

 

 

Hank nodded in agreement. “Say, where’s the ‘willow-the-wisp’ who landed in your window, Iz? I haven’t met her yet, though Merry pointed her out to me yesterday when we were over at the beach. She was running as fast as a deer, her little legs pumping like I don’t know what. Made you wonder what she was running from.” He looked over at Nell. “My fleeting glimpse made me think she had spirit.”

 

 

“I think she probably does. She’s an artist. Fiber art,” Nell said.

 

 

“So why isn’t she here with all the artists? She hung around the cove this past weekend, Merry said, poring over that little tourist map we have, asking people questions, wandering all over the place. If she’s an artist, maybe she was looking for a gallery?”

 

 

“You mean to exhibit her work?”

 

 

Hank shrugged. “What do I know? I’m not an artist. I just keep them fat and happy.” He laughed at himself and then looked out over the crowd to make sure no one was waving down a waiter or had an empty pitcher on his table. “But Merry says she checked out every nook and cranny in the cove.”

 

 

“Well, I don’t know about that, but who knows? I’ll ask her. I’m sure we could find someone interested in showing her work in the cove.”

 

 

Izzy leaned into the conversation, propping an elbow on the table. “It’s a good idea, but I don’t think it’ll happen. Willow made it pretty clear she wasn’t going to hang around long. It’s funny, though, because I think she loves the ocean. She talks about it as if . . . I don’t know, as if this is what she’s been looking for.” She shook her head and frowned. “I’m not making much sense, am I? She told us why she came, and that was just to visit the shop. And then move on.”

 

 

“She came all this way just to talk at the Seaside Studio?” Cass asked. “Weird. Not that the Studio isn’t worth it—” She lifted one dark brow until she drew a smile from Izzy.

 

 

“She’s just young and carefree,” Birdie said. “She wants to see the world. A free spirit, like our Sam here.” Birdie patted Sam’s tan arm. Sam’s camera and photo shoots took him across the globe, but in recent months he’d come back to Sea Harbor more and more frequently. “He’s become a homing pigeon,” Birdie had suggested to Nell. “And maybe home means being where Izzy is?” The thought was not an unfavorable one, not to Ben or Nell or the knitting group who worked diligently at planning one another’s lives.

 

 

“Young and carefree?” Sam laughed. “Not so much, Birdie. And I’m actually about to become a homeowner for the first time in my forty years. How’s that for trashing your young and fly-by-night theory?”

 

 

“You found a place?” Nell said. “Wonderful, Sam.”

 

 

“Yes, it’s that,” Sam said, wrapping an arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “Izzy here helped me. She found it entertaining to find a place I couldn’t resist or afford.”

 

 

“Just like my Merry over there,” Hank said, inclining his head toward his young wife. Merry stood near the outside bar, her blond ponytail waving as she greeted guests and bid others good night. Merry was a lovable live wire who loved the good life—and was determined to make Hank provide it for her.

 

 

“A Realtor friend found the place,” Izzy said. “You’ll love it. It’s set back a little from the beach, but not much, and it’s perfect for Sam. Airy, open, simple.”